


Certain Finer Points

by rispacooper



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, M/M, Painplay, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt feels the argument in his throat stutter out into a heavy breath by the third vicious challenge from Hermann. No, challenge is the wrong word, but Newt's thoughts--spinning a second ago--hit a wall, a sliding, chalk-covered wall covered in symbols, and who writes on a wall anyway in the digital age? He'd say a dinosaur, but that's too flattering. Hermann doesn't deserve the comparison to anything that awesome and terrible. Hermann is just Hermann, being ridiculous as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Finer Points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeebuddha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Certain Finer Points (Take Two)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/916609) by [rispacooper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper). 



> This was supposed to be porn, but it really isn't. You should also know it was written as a statement for some silly anon on Tumblr who didn't understand a fem!Newt story by Coffeebuddha. So this is an experimental answer. You can read it as m/m, or you can read the same story as fem!Newt if you follow the links. :)

Newt feels the argument in his throat stutter out into a heavy breath by the third vicious challenge from Hermann. No, challenge is the wrong word, but Newt's thoughts--spinning a second ago--hit a wall, a sliding, chalk-covered wall covered in symbols, and who writes on a wall anyway in the digital age? He'd say a dinosaur, but that's too flattering. Hermann doesn't deserve the comparison to anything that awesome and terrible. Hermann is just Hermann, being ridiculous as usual. 

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with insisting on looking into the possibility that the Kaiju will return," Newt insists indignantly, getting some of his steam back though it's taking longer than it normally would. "If you weren't wasting time squinting at numbers you'd see that _once again_ ," he can't help the small dig, " _I_ am right."

He's facing the chalkboard; it's easy and satisfying to gesture excited at all that theory in front of him. He points, index finger out, and hits the slate, leaving a cleanish spot of green behind when he pulls his hand back. If he tries hard, he can make out the swirls of his fingerprint in that spot of muted color. 

When Hermann pushes him forward, Newt can see his fingerprint, can see himself, the only him, almost as good as a DNA marker. Right there on Hermann's chalkboard are _his_ swirls and ridges. Newt already has them memorized but for another second he's stunned to see them there and rubs his index finger against his thumb to feel the grainy texture of the chalk. Hermann's chalk on him, part of his brain reminds him helpfully, _Hermann's_. 

The tip of Hermann's cane pokes into his back and shoves him closer to the board, like Hermann is some kind of sadistic school teacher. Newt's heart kicks up to about a thousand beats per minute. He couldn't hold still if he tried, not that he would, not even if he really, really wanted to. He tries to turn around and gets another prod from the cane. It doesn't make him stop, but it doesn't make him keep going either. 

He changes direction, twisting to better face the chalkboard, and Hermann lets out a rasping breath that should be abrasive. But the chalk on Newt's fingers is smooth and it's the tip of Hermann's cane that hurts. It's not a bad hurt, just a little one, pressure against his spine, at his lower back, and Hermann holds it there, Hermann keeps it there, making Newt face exactly what he did. 

Newt looks at his fingerprint again. It looks like a dot over an 'i' over Hermann's equations. It looks like a period. It looks like a fingerprint. It looks like nothing, like Hermann overreacting again. Or maybe it isn't the fingerprint at all but what he's been saying, which is bullshit because Newt would bet the intact gall bladder of a Category II that Hermann has or is about to predict the probability of where and when the Kaiju might return. It's ingrained now, the paranoia of a population nearly wiped out, of people who know firsthand that they are not alone in the universe and all they have to try to prepare is the handwriting of God. 

Which is still one of the most ludicrous, overly dramatic things he has heard Hermann say, if not _the_ most ludicrous, overly dramatic thing, because for someone who thinks poetry and theater and art is a lie, Hermann has a tendency to paint the world in some seriously stark colors. 

"Kaiju groupie," Hermann denounces him, huffing just a little bit as he moves forward without the aid of the cane, and then swings the cane to the floor. It hits the back of Newt's sneaker. He moves his foot without thinking, spreading his legs so obviously even Hermann will get it. 

Not that Hermann hasn't already figured this out too, he's just chicken about weird things. 

But not today. Today Newt shakes his head because okay yeah Kaiju are amazing and terrifying and always will be, and they brought them both fame and glory, but that isn't what this is, this is the simple fact that conquerors conquer, that one repelled invasion is never the end of anything, that humans are not at the top of universal food chain. Today is Newt saying that out loud and Hermann growling at him because he knows Newt's right. 

It's not difficult to curl one hand around the side of the board and to put one flat against the tray along the bottom over the long, white sticks of chalk Hermann hasn't used yet. Hermann's fingers are pale and thin. Newt can feel them cool and light at his back, pushing over that same spot on his spine, just above his belt. 

His thoughts hit a wall again and he shakes his head. "Hermann you aren't listening!" he pants and licks his lips when there is no response. Hermann will be licking his lips too. It's a thing, one of _those_ things, the _Drift_ things, that Newt just knows, though he knew it before too, he just didn't know that when Hermann did it, it was also a sex thing. 

He wants to yell for Hermann not to hesitate but has to take a moment to make the words into actual words and not the flood of pictures tinged with memory and emotion that was sharing thought. There were studies about that, about the difference in communication in and out of the Drift, articles on whether telepathy held an advantage that vocalization did not, but Newt likes words, likes them a hell of a fucking lot and so uses them, shouting them out like they aren't in a building surrounded by others labs where they might be overheard.

"Are you really worried that I don't want this right now?" he snorts, wanting to gesture at his head to make everything clear to certain reactionary, uptight, repressed, British doctors, but equally unwilling to take his hands away from the chalkboard. It's Hermann's chalkboard and he touched it. Newt wants to knock his forehead into it and hang on for a good, long while. "We shared heads!" he pushes out breathlessly, "we shared _thoughts_ , dude!" Soul bonding is what he's taken to calling it, though that concept doesn't exactly exist in nature. It isn't entirely without precedent among the best of the Jaeger pilots though. If he tells Hermann they are soul bonded, as he's thought about doing more than once, okay as he _has_ said once--slurred really, after a three day bout of insomnia and brilliance--Hermann will laugh, but they are fucking soulmates for life, dude. More than that, they fucking saved the world, they had saved the world-- _together_! Everyone knew it! All the academic adulation in the universe only made what was glimpsed in the Drift more real. This shouldn't be so new with ten years and everything else between them. Hermann had to knock this off. This wasn't even the first time they'd done this. "I mean, fuck, dude, Drift compatible shouldn't even have been a surprise when you think about it. Out of everyone working in Research, we were the two who stayed. The two who recognized what was on the line regardless of our professional reputations--"

"You didn't have a professional reputation worth speaking of," Hermann interjects, stiffening his voice, and cracks his cane against the side of Newt's ankle. Newt's shoes are canvas, it hits bone. Newt makes a small sound at the echoing pain--already fading-- that he is not even a little bit ashamed of, and spreads his legs that much wider. 

"Now I'm a rock star," he forces out when he wants to bite his lower lip, and shuts his eyes when Hermann's cool fingers leave his back to curl around his wrists. Hermann positions Newt's hands precisely how he wants them, leaving certain finer points unspoken. Newt is not allowed to touch the chalkboard itself, though Hermann's left the fingerprint where it is, in Newt's face, to taunt him, the prick. Newt protests in a stream of words that he honestly does not recall a second after he says them. 

"You're an idiot," Hermann corrects him, and his breath is hot behind Newt's ear. "You spout theories without considering evidence, without looking for any sort of foundation at all. You have absolutely nothing to ground you. All ideas, no science, and you accuse me of living in theory." The scratch in Hermann's voice should not be attractive. It isn't, in any kind of rational way. But Newt isn't so much about the rational all the time. Sometimes it's what's in your gut. 

He whines and knows Hermann knows why because, hey, the Drift right? Hermann had done that with him, _for_ him. Hermann is with him now even with the Drift gone, uncertain and pissed off at his back and aching to touch him and _here_. 

Newt knows things. Hermann knows things. It's weird. And terrible. And awesome. 

"Me and my work live in the real world," Newt argues, because words are a bridge when the Drift is gone, direct and applicable and real world ready. "Are you gonna touch me or not?" 

"Your 'work' as you call it, is sloppy, and frankly, beneath you. I know what you are capable of, Newton. This is careless." 

For half a heartbeat, Newt can't tell if Hermann means his theory or the fingerprint on the chalkboard, then Hermann sets his cane firmly down against the floor to support himself and slides a hand over Newt's hip. Newt arches back instantly, shivering because it isn't warm. Hermann is cool until you push into him, then he's burning. 

Hermann says his name, "Newton", and Newt stills. He's got his nose to the chalkboard but he freezes and exhales and waits, waits while Hermann's fingers reach his fly, press down. Hermann's hand trembles but his breathing is level. He isn't reaching for Newt's zipper. "You will not be so careless with my work, will you?" 

It's not a question. Newt considers it anyway, letting the silence drag on because every second makes him want to stretch onto his toes and breathe hard all over Hermann's equations. Every second he waits makes Hermann want to hurt him in ways that Newt is pounding to think about. 

"You will not touch them." Hermann reads his mind, or knows him well after years of this or something like it. "You will keep your fingers just where they are, won't you, Newton?"

Again, Newton thinks about saying no. He always thinks about it. But there's punishment and there's reward, and tightening his hands on the chalkboard and telling Hermann to get on with it because the second wave of Kaiju attacks could come at any moment is somewhere in between. Hermann reacts by sliding his thumb down the length of Newt's zipper, the touch almost nothing where the things are getting tight, are tight, have been tight since Hermann pushed him against the board and placed Newt's hands where he wanted them. 

Newt thinks about turning around and kissing Hermann until their air is the same. He's moaning faintly now, which would be humiliating if he weren't about to get laid and also aware that Hermann is probably just as hard in his neatly ironed trousers. 

"We both know I probably improved it," he defends himself before shutting his eyes and rocking his hips forward. The zipper is slow to come down. Hermann is an asshole. He'll leave it like that too, sometimes, leave Newt in sticky shorts with a hard-on while he gets himself off, blushing and furious behind him, yanking Newt's shirt out of his waistband at the last second to shoot his load over the ink on his back. It's pretty great. 

"You haven't done anything to it worth noting," Hermann counters, his voice dry and rough, and Newt crushes chalk under his palm and spasms at the conflicting sensations of Hermann's cool fingers freeing his cock and Hermann's warm, slight body along his back. Newt stumbles and then flails for a link, neural or otherwise, until he finds Hermann's hip. Well, first Hermann's heavy sweater and a thin undershirt, then his hip. He can't tell if it punishment or not that Hermann doesn't place his hand back on the board.

"Haven't done anything worth noting?" Newt turns his head enough to shape a "Ha!" in Hermann's direction, "then what the hell is this?" It feels like connection. Like sex, like more than sex though that is a connection too, almost enough to make Newt wonder about Kaiju and how they breed but not enough to make him leave the moment to chase that rabbit, not right now. 

"You should not," Hermann begins, then pushes against him, using him for support without ever letting go of the cane. "You should not say it like that, Newton, have you learned _nothing_?" he demands, almost biting the air, and Newt falls forward, smears chalk, fudges a Greek letter or two, sucks particles of chalk dust into his lungs. Hermann's fingers are hot now, his grip tight and strong, and Newt holds on as best he can but Hermann wants it to be rough and the drops of pre-ejaculate on Hermann's fingers are no substitute for lube. Newt realizes he's panting and pulls Hermann to him so that he can feel Hermann's cock hard against his back. 

He wants Hermann's hands at his wrists, bruising, or Hermann to fuck him, right here, because seriously did he not make it clear that the Kaiju are going to come back and who knows how much time they have? But he's shaking and Hermann is shaking and neither of them is moving even though Newt is leaving imprints all over Hermann's chalkboard. 

If he could talk, he would ask how he is supposed to say that the worst thing to ever happen to mankind is going to happen again, is there some polite way? But words finally slip from him when Hermann pulls his hand away long enough to bring it to Newt's mouth, and then Newt's whimpering and wetting Hermann's palm with his tongue. Hermann tastes like dust and Newt's pre-come. His fingers fit easily into his mouth and Newt thinks about sucking them in, and then about sucking Hermann off. Today. Tomorrow. Every day. 

Hermann's head bumps into the back of his. He breathes out viciously and then takes his hand away and resumes stroking Newt's dick. That's vicious too, even with the spit-lube. Hermann loves him and also wants to kill him a little. 

"Did you think I wouldn't know?" Hermann's mouth is a tight line of anger against Newt's skin, "we shared _thoughts_ , Newton!" 

He burns. Fuck, Hermann burns, his dusty fingers curled tight around Newt's cock, his voice a rasp along his skin, like something from Newt's subconscious, leaving marks hidden by ink but which Newt can feel, will feel, no matter what. Hermann knows that. The knowledge could be mapped out in front of him. It could dust on Newt's face right now. It could be in his lungs.

His thoughts hit a wall, again, as Hermann's fingers coax pleasure from him. Hermann is bringing him off fast, almost painfully so, because he gets it, the world could be ending all over again and they have this, will have this, until it's all over. Newt gasps out and comes, surprised, with one hand still holding tight to the fucking chalkboard and the other digging into the lean muscle of Hermann's hip. It's quick, shamefully so, but he isn't the least bit embarrassed. Well, he's a _tiny_ bit embarrassed; there's come dripping on his shirt, on his pants, and his chest heaving. Hermann is hard behind him, but he's probably just as buttoned up as ever. 

Hermann takes a second to control his breathing and then steps back. His cane smacks into the floor again, harder, as he repositions himself to stand firm. "You ruined my calculations," he declares at last when Newt's come is starting to get really sticky, because Hermann knows things and he is right there with Newt when Newt turns around in relief and slips down to his knees in front of him. 

"Pft. You mean made them a thousand times better?" Newt challenges thickly, words so much slower than thought now, and swallows in anticipation when white fingers twine into his hair and tug him sharply forward.


End file.
